


Riddlette: Diminutive of "Riddler"

by MadameDeBergerac



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Gen, Headcanon, Jealousy, POV Minor Character, expanding Gotham's female characters for them because they so rarely want to put in the effort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-03 11:29:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21178691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameDeBergerac/pseuds/MadameDeBergerac
Summary: In a fairer world, she wouldn't have to settle for just being his sidekick.  But no one could ever be as good as Edward Nygma... much less a girl like her, right?





	Riddlette: Diminutive of "Riddler"

Myrtle Jenkins had always more than admired Edward Nygma. For most of her life, she wanted to be just like him.

She knew this whip-smart boy from when they were both kids, and she got to hear all about his little adventure with the puzzle box and did he crack the code for real or did he cheat? Either way, he solved it, and even though the teacher and Mr. Nashton were less than pleased (Mr. Nashton especially so), there was no denying that Edward was something else. They didn’t have to like it—they just had no choice but to acknowledge that he was some kind of genius the likes of which they didn’t know how to handle.

Myrtle studied chemistry and English. She memorized an entire book of Edward Lear poems just for fun once (just so she could whip out “The Owl and the Pussycat” whenever she wanted) and went to all of her teacher’s seminars on chemical reactions and played around with the liquid nitrogen more than anyone. She thought maybe she could work in a spa someday, so she learned how to do acupuncture and give a massage. She thought maybe she could be a fashion designer, so she learned how to make her own clothes out of the most colorful fabrics she could find and walked around her high school like a sentient patchwork quilt. She scored high in all of her standardized tests and was put in the Gifted and Talented program.

And still no one noticed her. She faded into the background because she was just another girl, just another nerd. Girls were naturally smart, right? Nothing to sit up and take notice of. No one asked her for help with anything, no one was happy for her when she got an A, no one reacted with awe when she was able to figure out a formula no one else could. She wasn’t a genius, they concluded. She wasn’t a star, a problem, a threat, or a maverick of any kind. She was just another smart one.

Well, what if she didn’t want to be just another smart one? What if she wanted to be special? What if she wanted one of the teachers to wave his yardstick over her like a fairy godmother’s wand and make her someone to be admired and treated with respect and even fear? Maybe it was because she was too nice (weren’t geniuses supposed to be cold and emotionally distanced)? Maybe it was because she was too normal (weren’t geniuses supposed to be tortured and mistreated by their peers)? When rumors started circulating that Edward’s dad beat him because he was “too smart”, some terrible part of Myrtle wished that would happen to her. That would at least mean someone noticed her.

Years passed. Edward became a world-class criminal, the Prince of Puzzles, the Count of Conundrums, the fastest safecracker and most stylish thief in Gotham, if not American, history. Myrtle became a factory seamstress. And it all seemed so blisteringly unfair. Why did everything work out for him in the end even when he had so much more working against him? Why did he get a chance to shine and not her? She didn’t deserve to fade into mediocrity just because she was one smart girl in a sea of thousands. She was more than just another smart girl—she’d always known it. She was every bit as goddamned special as he was.

And there was one afternoon she happened to drive past Edward, a faraway green figure on the opposite side of the street, on her way home from work to her sad little apartment. He wasn’t alone—he was flanked by four women, two in leotards and fishnets, two in fancy skirts and sweaters, all gabbing animatedly with him as they walked along, not a care in the world. They all looked so happy, so content to just be in each other’s company, like a little family. While Myrtle made her way back to a sad, cold apartment with a leaky faucet and a single beta fish. What had she done not to deserve what he had? Because she wanted that companionship, that sense of belonging to somewhere and someone, that odd kind of family. She wanted it like burning.

A few weeks after that little sighting, Myrtle saw neither hide nor hair of Edward on the news, on the papers, anywhere. She has no more clippings to collect, no more pictures of his stupid beautiful face to ponder for a very long time. Had his fifteen minutes of fame finally ended? A little snooping told her no, that wasn’t the case. As it turned out, he’d made a few of the wrong members of the mob quite angry, and he was now sitting in a storeroom somewhere, frozen in a block of ice, completely abandoned and helpless. Upon hearing this, Myrtle doesn’t react with “Oh, damn, what he done to deserve that?” or “What a shame!” No—when she hears about the Riddler’s current state, her heart leaps a little bit, and her smile is a tad inappropriately giddy. This is her chance. She’s gonna save him. She’s gonna get him out of the one predicament he couldn’t riddle his way out of. She’s gonna get to be the hero, the innovative one, the actual freaking genius this time. So she arms herself with a welder’s torch, her laptop to cut the power in the warehouse she’s found, her acupuncture needles, and the beautiful green and red dress she’s made just for the occasion.

Edward doesn’t know it yet, but he gave her a purpose. A reason for getting through her miserable job and her utterly unremarkable life. A sense of what she’s always wanted out of her life, even if the details are a little ugly and not full thought out. And she’ll be damned if she isn’t going to finally make the most of it.


End file.
